


stained crimson

by justlikeswitchblades



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-The Eleventh Hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:52:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10060097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades
Summary: Magnus gets existential. Merle tries to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a month ago and boy it does not make things hurt any less

As the primary fighter in their group, it’s not uncommon for Magnus to come home from a mission sporting a color wheel of bruises over his body, pink scars glistening on his skin before they scab and heal over. He takes a healthy amount of pride in his battle damage, flexing in front of Avi and Carey, but only for a day or so before his modesty takes over, ruffling Angus’s hair and telling him he’ll be all right to keep his eyes from getting too dewy. He winces and groans in the mornings, taking his time at first until he gets antsy, restless to start training again. Merle doesn’t spend all of his time with Magnus when they’re back at the Bureau, but when he sees him, he can usually find him talking animatedly or training tirelessly, like clockwork.

This time, it’s different. In the beginning, it’s the same as it always is. But two weeks in, Magnus just looks _tired_. He smiles politely, making conversation when he runs into friends, but there are dark circles bruising underneath his eyes, his beard wilder and unkempt, a slight but noticeable departure from his typically polished grizzle—and Merle’s usually not the type to notice. They find each other in the lunch rush crowd at the Bureau cafeteria, and they sit down together at one of the long tables. Magnus’s eyelids drop, nudging the tenderloin on his plate with his fork as the silence stretches out between them. Finally, he lets out a small sigh.

“Merle, you’re a man of God, right?”

Merle makes a face, grunting.

“Well, I’m a man of _a_ god, and a rather fickle one at that,” Merle grumbles, the pinky finger of his wooden arm tingling at the blaspheme.

“But I suppose I’m still a cleric at the end of the day,” He sighs, jokingly exasperated, “What’s eating you?”

Magnus doesn't even blink.

“I think I need some help.”

Merle levels a gaze at Magnus through his steel-rimmed glasses, raising his eyebrows.

“Spiritual, or psychological?”

The corners of Magnus’s mouth lift with a weak laugh, accepting the gruff sarcasm for what it is. “I’ll try to stick to the former.”

“Say no more, Magnus,” Merle lays a hand atop his, still loosely holding his fork, “I’m glad to hear you’d like to join the order of Pan. I’d be even happier to take you on as my pupil.”

“That’s...not so much as the case as you might like it to be,” Magnus tells him, the smile lingering just a touch longer on his face before the corners of his lips drop again, “I need guidance.”

“There’s this thing, this problem, this…” Magnus pauses, fingers combing through his hair in an attempt to keep his composure.

“This thing has been eating at me, Merle. And I haven’t told anyone about it. And it’s terrifying, and confusing, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“You could start by telling me what _it_ is.”

“That’s the thing,” Magnus explains, “I can’t.” He makes a face, opening his mouth, then shakes his head, at a loss. “I don’t know if it’s my body or what, but I just _can't_. And even if I could tell you, I—”

Magnus falters, his fork clattering to the table as he sinks his face into his hands. He wipes at his skin, meeting Merle’s gaze with fear in his eyes.

“I’m not sure if I would.”

_Really, Magnus? I thought you trusted me._

It’s Merle’s first thought, and he nearly surprises himself when he realizes he didn’t say it out loud. He’s never been the most sensitive or selfless type. Having kids softened him a little, sure, but the roughness still shows. The fact that Magnus has come to him despite having seen him at his worst, is proof enough that he trusts him—perhaps even more than Merle ever realized. Whatever secret Magnus has, the notion that Merle can’t give him the answer that he's looking for, the very fact that the strongest person he knows came to him in his moment of weakness, it's…

It's enough to scare him, too.

“Well, if I were you, I—” 

Merle pauses, and he feels his usual tendency to bullshit slip helplessly through his fingers. He sits back solemnly in his chair and exhales, defeated.

“I would consult a higher power.” 

Magnus’s eyebrows draw together, puzzled.

“Yeah, that’s...why I came to you, Merle.” 

“Mag...have you tried telling Lucretia about this?”

If he hadn’t been paying such close attention, Merle is sure he would’ve missed it. It’s just for a second, but Magnus hesitates. He could comment on it, but there’s still a faint stinging traveling the length of his arm.

It’s not like he hasn’t had his own issues with authority lately.

“Huh,” Magnus pushes out his cheek with his tongue, mulling on the thought as he looks over the still-untouched tray of food in front of him. He stands up from the table, “Maybe I should.” 

Merle lifts a hand, reaching after him.

“Magnus?’

He stops, turning back to face Merle.

“Thank you.”

Magnus’s brow wrinkles for a second, but his face soon clears with a subtle understanding—or, at least, the desire to keep the tough questions limited to a minimum this conversation.

“Yeah,” He nods, setting his jaw, “You too.”


End file.
